How great to lift
Tragedy to majesty,
Concealed by the curtains
On greatest defeat.
Your life has smoldered in winter,
Drowned of ashes,
Then to ashes, you return.
Black decay has been your flavor
To comprehension.
I hold your hand in my burning own,
Gaping this palm
With the brightest, embedded nail.
I die for the horrors you keep,
As my mind has stung,
While my heart still beats.
I still live,
Though breathless, I act
As this fall of anchor in puddles,
In your tears.
I slow our caress to a strong grasp,
Blending blessing with burden.
You kiss the wind,
As I smelt words into a poem.
My love,
Blindly, as you recall
Your days, outnumbered by pain,
By washing, crimson waves,
Can you hold onto the hands of the clock,
Instead of my feverish own?
Truly haunting imagery so evocative to being trapped in the abyss of one’s own mental horrors. The narrator tries to bring them back to where they are, but it’s only time that will pass before the subject of the poem can come back on their own time.
You capture the despair, grief, and PTSD very well. It’s really heartbreaking especially when describing the perspective on what we see on the outside, not even seeing what goes on entirely in the inside. This is beautifully penned, very visceral and as always, thought provoking. Excellent work. 🙂
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Thanks so much, Lucy!
I enjoy reading your comments to my own work. 😀
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Loved it❤️
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Thanks! 😀
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